


Good Reasons to Punch an Angel Near You

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Series: 101 Ways [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sam Winchester, Archangels, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Some Humor, Unrequited Lucifer/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester has lived a very complicated life. And he's very good at buckling down and pushing through. So when it comes to his attention that a world-class idiot of an archangel (i.e. Gabriel) is apparently trying to win his heart, he handles it the same way he does everything else: with intelligence, grace, and more than a drop of alcohol.</p>
<p>101 Ways from Sam's perspective. <br/>Starts just after chapter 11, Little Angels Are Our Future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Truth Comes Out, Sort Of

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is for anyone curious about what Sam has been up to this whole time. It's turned a lot more rambly than Gabriel's half of the story, shockingly. It will, however, be shorter. It will also include a lot of appearances by Michael and Lucifer, who are stupidly fun to write.

Sam Winchester generally liked to think of himself as a reasonable man. One who had done some awful things, experienced some awful things, one who would never be quite clean or pure… But reasonable. Understanding, even.

However, he was also not an idiot.

And he didn’t have an archangel blade handy.

So when Michael and Lucifer appeared in the Bunker’s library where he and Dean were poring over unfinished Men of Letters research and cataloguing all the weird shit their grandfather and his Illuminati buddies had left them, his first response was to generate some distance, the better for avoiding smiting. After all, he had attacked an archangel mere days before. And even though everything else about the incident felt fuzzy and off, the punch was diamond-clear. He could still feel the crunch of bone under his fist. Lucifer had returned, and Sam had punched him in the face. It should have felt cathartic, like poetic justice. Instead, his stomach was in knots, and he wondered if maybe it had to do with the revenge he was surely about to witness.

Sam’s second train of thought was to be irritated that Dean was standing in front of him protectively and directly in the potential line of fire.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Dean demanded, voice low and rasping with threats he couldn’t back up.

But only Michael’s eyes were on Dean, too odd staring out at them from an image of their young father, his gaze burning with something unclear. Lucifer’s eyes, insistent, searched out Sam’s instead. And when Sam glared at him, the Devil’s hand flinched up towards his nose, and Sam hated that, _hated_ that because it brought his mind swirling back to that punch which should have been satisfying but wasn’t. Why wasn’t it?

It had been bugging him for days, and the feeling was so acute, so hard to articulate, that he hadn’t even bothered trying to tell Dean about it.

“My brother,” Michael said at last, breaking the tension in two with his slow enunciation, placing a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder and squeezing it, “has come to apologize.”

“For everything, or just breaking and entering?” Dean asked with a sarcastic twist of his head, keeping his hands white-knuckled over the back of a chair so he wouldn’t be tempted to lash out.

“Gabriel has been practicing speaking to you,” Lucifer blurted out, blue eyes still riveted to Sam.

“Lucifer!”

The hand on Lucifer’s shoulder tightened, and Sam got the feeling that had not been part of the agreed-upon conversation. To his credit, what little there was, the Devil managed to look a bit ashamed of himself. Sam’s brow furrowed.

“Gabriel’s… Alive?” he asked.

Shrugging Michael away from him, Lucifer flicked his wrist. A sharp rata-tat-tat hit the inside of Sam’s skull, and his vision flooded with wide, butterscotch eyes and floppy golden wings. He remembered why punching Satan in the face was a memory that made his stomach roll instead of bringing a smile to his face. And suddenly, sharply, he wished he didn’t.

But he stifled that immediate urge. Because not knowing had always come back to bite him before. Sam Winchester was a man who knew that he needed all the pieces to see the big picture, even if they hurt or made it hard to breathe in ways he couldn’t explain. But he didn’t need a couple of archangels watching him. What he needed was to be alone.

“Get. Out.”

Michael was startled out of his scolding glare at Lucifer. The Devil himself took a step back, and Sam felt a thrill of power zip through his veins that hadn’t come over him since he’d been miles high on demon blood. When he made that connection, his heart almost stopped in a feeling akin to horror.

Lucifer took that moment to try and plead his case.

“Sam—”

But if he wasn’t about to fall apart in front of archangels, he sure as hell wasn’t about to let them wheedle their way into his brain while he was still paralyzed in his own issues. Sam steeled his gaze.

“I said get out!”

With a soft chorus of flapping wings, Michael and Lucifer were gone.

Sam sagged a little, but when Dean shot him a ‘you alright?’ look, he knew he had to try and smile.

“Sammy…”

He waved his brother away, gathering their research materials into a pile before heading for the door.

“I’m fine. Dean. I’ll be fine.”

And even though Sam Winchester was completely the opposite of fine, Dean just frowned and let him go.

 

It was two days later when the uncomfortable sickish feeling that haunted the pit of his stomach became too much. Something had to be done, that much at least was clear.

Locked in his bedroom, Sam folded his hands awkwardly and wondered, not for the first time in his relatively short life, if he was crazy.

“Uh… Lucifer…?” the brunette began, closing his hazel eyes. “I’m not sure if this will actually work or not, but you _are_ an angel, so… Uh, look, can… Can we talk?”

There was a flutter of wings, and Sam opened his eyes to see Lucifer, still looking like Nick and with his hands tucked behind his back. He was almost glowing, as if being prayed to had done something, flipped a switch, made him into more of an angel. Whatever an angel was, because Sam’s conception of them had been thrown through more loops than he could count. Lucifer’s gray-blue eyes were so cautiously earnest that Sam felt an actual thrill of fear.

“Hello, Sam,” the Devil greeted him softly.

The hunter whisked in a deep breath. It was one thing to know that Satan was out of his Cage. It was quite another to have him standing before you. And it was a third thing altogether to be standing alone with the Devil, locked in a room where no one would hear you scream.

Sam briefly considered the mistakes of his life, and that this was very likely one of them.

As if sensing his train of thought, Lucifer flinched.

“Did you need me for something, Sam…?” he asked, taking a measured step back to keep distance between them.

Sam almost let himself appreciate the gesture. But the memory of flames still licked at his face and the words ‘bunk buddy’ rattled in his head like a marble in a tin can. Lucifer flinched again. Sam shook his head, hard, to dislodge the path his thoughts seemed determined to lead him down, and took a deep, nostril-flaring breath through his nose.

“What did you mean, about Gabriel?” he demanded at last.

Lucifer was obliging, almost too much so, but Sam could always tell when the Devil was being honest with him because the times he wasn’t had been surprisingly few.

“Gabriel has been practicing telling you that he has romantic feelings for you, but he didn’t get my permission beforehand to court you so I—”

“He needs your ‘permission’ to ‘court me’?” Sam asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Haven’t you messed with my love life enough?”

Lucifer’s mouth trembled around a rush of possessive words, and he folded his hands behind his back. On instinct, his face fell back into that familiar, too-soft look, the pitying one Sam had always hated. He was lucky, although he didn’t know it, that he had never had to see that look on his own face the way Dean had.

“You’re my True Vessel, Sam,” Lucifer said quietly.

“That doesn’t give you the right—”

“No, but I took it,” the Devil told him, going on the verbal offensive finally, although he kept a respectful distance and didn’t move to approach Sam, knowing that would be unacceptable. “You and I, Sam, we’re connected. No one can understand you like I can. I couldn’t just let Gabriel get away with—”

“Get away with _what_?” the hunter asked. “If ‘courting’ me is his intention, it’s not like I can’t say no on my own!”

Lucifer tilted his head.

“Will you?”

“Will I what?” Sam pressed.

The archangel ducked his head.

“Say no?”

Sam gaped at him, unsure exactly how he was meant to respond. It wasn’t like he had ever thought about the idea enough to have an answer ready. The obvious choice was yes, he would say no. But then the starry-eyed look that child-Gabriel had given him sucker-punched him, hard, in the gut. The purity of the love in that expression added to adult Gabriel’s alleged romantic intentions made an unexpectedly potent combination.

“That’s none of your business,” Sam managed past the breathlessness seizing him.

“It is my business,” Lucifer insisted. “You’re my—”

“True Vessel, yeah, I got that. It’s not gonna convince me you’re allowed to meddle in things that should be between me and your brother.”

The Devil looked strained. And though Sam Winchester was not the kind of man to entertain those sorts of thoughts often, he decided he was justified in thinking that Lucifer could shove his desire to thin the physical distance between them up his feathery ass. Sam had prayed to him for information, and he’d gotten it. He would be perfectly justified in telling the blond archangel to never come near him again, since outright killing him was not, in terms of sheer possibility, in the cards. Sam was trying to decide whether or not he was too polite to express his thoughts aloud when Lucifer cleared his throat.

“Sam, _please_.”

“Please what?” Sam asked.

“I never lied to you, Sam, I kept my promises,” Lucifer pleaded. “I’m still not… Overly fond of humanity, but _you_ … We’re connected, Sam. You and me,—”

The Devil faltered a bit, and Sam could feel the words ‘bunk buddy’ hanging sourly in the air between them. There was no apology, only a slightly sheepish expression. But Sam was used to not receiving apologies from angels. Or anyone, really. The hunter brushed a hand through his brown hair, flicking it back from his face.

“What do you _want_?”

“I,” Lucifer’s fingers itched towards his own throat, then higher, until the blond had tucked the pad of his thumb and the nail of his index finger against his lower lip. “I want you to pray to me again, Sam.”

Sam schooled his features into sharp disdain, because he couldn’t even bring himself to speak. Thankfully, he didn’t need to. Lucifer vanished, leaving him alone in his locked bedroom with his thoughts. They spun a bit, wildly, when he remembered Gabriel in his quest to try and take his mind off Satan asking him to call once in a while. One archangel was bad enough to have to worry about, but two was the absolute limit.

Sam wondered, while unlocking his door and stepping out into the bright, fizzing lighting of the Bunker hallway, if he had enough self-control not to drown himself in the first bottle of whiskey he came across.

The answer was clear to Dean an hour and a half later, though he hadn’t heard the question. Interrupted from his attempt at a midnight snack, he hauled Sam back to his room and tucked him in, thanking God, Cas, and his lucky stars that Sam was a delirious, happy drunk. Even if it meant that his inebriated brother had fixated on insulting his height.

Just as he was closing Sam’s door, with the drunken moose himself safely cuddled in blankets inside, Dean heard something that made him pause. A soft, vulnerable voice that made his heart squeeze in his chest and sent him reeling back to peewee soccer tournaments and a probably lackluster production of Our Town.

“Night, Dean.”

Dean Winchester swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.

“Night, Sammy. Sweet dreams.”

And then he eased the door shut.


	2. We All Miss the Apocalypse, To Be Honest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up with a hangover and no more idea of what to do than before.  
> Then, true to form, he figures out a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place right before "The Games We Play".

The next morning, Sam’s head was pounding like a steel drum and his throat felt chalky and dry. The kicker was that his thoughts were still bouncing dizzily between Lucifer and Gabriel, neither one a welcome subject. Dropping his head back onto his pillow, the brunette groaned.

“I think I preferred the Apocalypse,” he mumbled into the fabric of the pillow case, even as he knew it was a gross, probably childish exaggeration.

Then, with a sigh, Sam heaved himself unsteadily from the bed and tottered to the kitchen for a glass of water. He surveyed the cupboards, blinking blearily, and then decided fuck it and stuck his head under the tap. And though he probably looked ridiculous, like a dog even, Sam was pleased with the results. The cool flow of water across his face woke him up and he was unfettered by the social graces of drinking from a cup. He guzzled water straight from the tap until he felt it sloshing in his belly, and then eased away with a sigh, wiping his face with the back of his hand and slicking his dripping locks away from his face.

But rehydration only solved the problem he’d created for himself the night before. It didn’t help him to deal with the archangels. And nothing would, until he had decided on his potential courses of action. So Sam slouched back to his room and closed the door.

First and foremost, he needed to figure out what to do with the so-called Trickster. Lucifer was… Well, Lucifer. He had his own section in Sam’s brain, his own nebula of problems. But the main focus, Sam decided, was on what to do about the information he’d gleaned about Gabriel’s recent activities. Which all hinged on Sam’s opinion of Gabriel. And though he considered himself fairly decisive, Sam actually had no idea what he thought of Gabriel.

And so, Sam Winchester did what he was best at, and made a list. He organized, compartmentalized, tried to put a name on the convoluted nature of his feelings towards Gabriel. At first it was just a list of good and bad, but then that seemed too stark, and he added a middle column for neutral actions, which spilled over into columns for things that were slightly good or slightly bad. And then he wondered if intention shifted the action’s category or not.

In the end, Sam had a messy jumble of facts and events and was no closer to figuring out the feelings part of things.

But if there was one thing Sam Winchester was not, it was a quitter. So he began again.

And again.

And again.

Three hours later, he was surrounded by a mountain of crumpled papers that he had given up on fitting into the trash can. It would have been more economical and more environmentally friendly to use his laptop, but it was always more soothing to physically pen things. Letting out an annoyed huff, Sam doodled a little stick figure angel with six wings and wondered why it was so hard to quantify his feelings.

He had loved Jess, for sure. And, much as he hated to admit it, he had loved Ruby. Not enough for those feelings to save her after her betrayal, but she had brought him back from the edge after Dean’s death, and it was hard not to feel a stirring of something for her still.

But, Gabriel. What about Gabriel?

He was powerful, and callous. Sam knew, on a practical level, that Gabriel would make a good tool. And though he wouldn’t have balked at using him as one five years before, the idea sat funny in Sam’s chest. Askew, like he’d picked it up and then dropped it back into place crooked.

And maybe that had something to do with Gabriel saving them from Lucifer.

But maybe it had to do with something else, and that was what bothered Sam. That possibility, the inkling of doubt telling him that maybe he cared about Gabriel for more than what the angel had or hadn’t done for him. And that doubt flared whenever Sam saw behind his eyelids the guileless smile child-Gabriel had thrown his way, or the flickering of molten gold eyes past tongues of holy fire, simultaneously ancient and powerful and sad.

Sam rested his head in his hands, fingers clenched in soft brown hair.

He was still sitting like that when Dean knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Sam said, and his voice cracked a bit from stress and disuse and the aftereffects of irresponsible dehydration by way of alcohol.

“Hey, Sammy, how you d—”

Dean swung the door open, but had only taken one step before he had to pause and gawk at the balled-up notebook paper littering the room.

“What, you been writing your memoir in here?” he asked, nudging piles aside with his toe.

Sam sighed.

“I prayed to Lucifer.”

Dean tensed, green eyes flashing, and Sam looked up with an expression ready to weather the storm of his brother’s anger. It was there, as expected. Dean grabbed the front of Sam’s flannel and hauled his younger brother to his feet.

“You did what?! What the hell, Sam!”

“I know, it was—”

“Stupid? You’re damn right it was! He’s the Devil! Not to mention Cosmic Douche Number Two out of three!”

Sam let himself be yanked around until Dean’s anger abated enough for him to try and study Sam for any sort of injuries. After a few minutes, satisfied, Dean squared his jaw, released his brother, and punched the wall in lieu of his little brother’s face.

“Well?” he demanded gruffly. “What’d he say?”

Sam’s posture loosened.

“He said that… That Gabriel’s in love with me,” the brunette admitted, running a hand through his hair.

Dean shot his brother a look of disbelief, and Sam shrugged.

“The porno-making dick we’ve tried to gank like five times since we met him, that Gabriel? Is in… He’s got a thing for you?” the older hunter rephrased, to be sure he’d heard right.

“According to Lucifer, yeah.”

Dean let out a low whistle.

“Man, Sammy, I knew you were like catnip for the weird ones but seriously?” he asked.

Sam scowled.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

And like that they were somewhat resolved. The tension abated slightly, leaving Sam back at square one where he had several choices and no way to determine the right one. And, as usual, Dean was fast to pick up on it. He nudged one of the crumpled papers with his toe.

“So what’s with the Beautiful Mind crap, then?” the green-eyed hunter demanded. “I mean sure, the dick’s got a thing for you, but so what?”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and huffed out a breath.

“I’m not sure how I feel about it,” he explained. “Or what I’m gonna do if he shows up. So…”

“You know what to do,” protested Dean. “Tell him to get bent!”

The brunette sighed loudly, massaging his temple.

“Dude, it’s not that easy. I mean, what if…”

“Please don’t tell me you’re thinking about saying yes to that asshat. Remember how well saying yes to archangels went for us before?”

“Dean this is different!” Sam protested.

“I don’t see how it is,” Dean said firmly, a level below shouting, jerking his head forward for emphasis.

Sam held out his hands at his sides, palm up.

“Look, Dean, I don’t know what to tell you. I just…” he fumbled. “I get it, alright, I just need some time to process all this.”

Dean nodded, but his stride was definitely pissed-off as he left the room, and he slammed the door closed behind him. Sam let out an aggravated groan. Archangels were enough trouble, but adding Dean to the mix just made everything a hundred times more complicated yet.

Frustrated, the brunette turned back to his desk. And then he had an epiphany.

“I need more data.”

 

Sam threw open his door and rushed to the Bunker’s library. Even in his hurry, though, he didn’t forget to fold his hands and close his eyes. It seemed weird to pray without doing that, even if Dean did all the time.

“Hey, uh, Cas, do you have a minute? It’s… Kinda important.”

There was a whoosh of wings, and Sam opened his eyes to see Castiel squinting at him, head tilted slightly.

“Yes, Sam? What is it?” the angel asked.

Sam nodded and rubbed a hand over his chin. It was Cas, after all, so… It’d be best to throw all his cards on the table, Sam decided. Just go for it.

“Cas, can I ask you for a favor?”

The angel blinked, squinted. Then he nodded.

“Of course, Sam,” Castiel said. “We are friends.”

“So get this,” the brunette began, feeling something a bit comforting wash over him as he started with that phrase. “According to Lucifer, Gabriel has been… Practicing. To, uh… Speak to me. If you’re not too busy upstairs, could you… Tell me what exactly he’s up to?”

Castiel blinked.

“You want me to spy on Gabriel.”

“Uh… Yeah, pretty much,” admitted Sam, shrugging his shoulders and looking sheepish.

Castiel frowned, and Sam’s heart thudded hard in his chest as the thought that Cas might refuse occurred to him. Maybe asking a seraph to spy on an archangel like that was overstepping some sort of boundary? Not to mention the angels were siblings, and they had been getting closer since the rebuilding effort in Heaven had started.

“It does concern you,” Castiel conceded, nodding. “However, I cannot guarantee I’ll be able to do as you ask, Sam. Gabriel is an archangel. He is more powerful than I have ever been, except…”

Both men looked away at the almost-mention of Castiel’s time as God. It was still a sore subject for everyone involved, and best avoided. The angel cleared his throat.

“In any case, I will do you this favor as best I can, Sam.”

“Thanks, Cas,” the brunette said with a relieved sigh.

The dark-haired seraph tilted his head farther to the side and closed his eyes.

“I’m needed,” he informed Sam. “… I will return tomorrow and tell you what I’ve discovered.”

Then he was gone, without even a goodbye. Sam smiled a little. Typical Cas. That done, Sam felt… Lighter, somehow. He had a plan. There was no need to agonize over Gabriel, not until he had more information to work with.

“Was that Cas?” he heard suddenly from behind.

“Yeah, Dean. I asked him to spy on Gabriel for me,” Sam explained.

Dean looked startled for a moment, but then nodded firmly. He offered his little brother a plate, and Sam noticed he was carrying two. Each one had a homemade burger on it, and Sam felt a slow, slightly amused smile spread across his face. He accepted the offered plate, and the two brothers sat at one of the library tables to chow down.

“Good plan,” Dean admitted after several quiet moments.

“I’m not a complete idiot, you know,” Sam pointed out.

He wanted to comment on how good the burger was, but it felt wrong for some reason. Instead, he focused on taking larger than usual bites. That seemed to get the message to Dean, though, because Sam’s hazel eyes caught a proud little grin on his brother’s face between bites. Once again, the brotherly hostility had faded, and Sam, in a safe place both physically and emotionally, let himself relax.

For the time being, he was just a guy chowing down on lunch with his brother.


End file.
